“I’ll drive us,” he argued as I spoke to the man at the desk.
He looked perkier than before, but I’d seen the evidence of his bender.
“You are hungover as hell,” I scolded. “The last thing we need is you getting aDUI. No way.”
He chucked me his keys. “Then you drive.”
“You just happen to have a car here?” I asked as the receptionist went to call a taxi.
He shrugged. “Martín knows I need to have a car and bike rented in whatever city we stay. If we’re close enough to home, I get one of my cars driven over.”
“That’s extreme,” I commented, tapping my fingers against the reception desk. We were going to be so late.
“I’mextreme,” he corrected, sounding nothing butchuffed. “Come on, you have a license, right?”
I nodded once. “But—”
“Surely we need to get to the shoot as quickly as possible,” he tormented. “A taxi might take a while.”
“I’ve never driven on the other side of the road.”
“The other…? Oh.” He laughed deeply. “You mean thecorrectside of the road. You English. My mother still hates driving anywhere other than England.” He shook his head with a fond smile. “Well, you’ll be driving across Europe soon enough, so you’ll need to get some practice in. Who’s best to teach you besides someone who drives for their job?”
“You don’t drive. You ride,” I reminded him.
He tapped my nose affectionately. “You’re learning fast.”
“Don’t patronise me,Armas,” I snapped, shoving his hand away.
He only used the movement to look at his watch on his wrist. He tapped it twice.
“Fine, I’ll drive,” I sighed and looked at the keys before calling to tell the receptionist in defeat.
Of course, the car he rented for the week was a light green sports car—Ciclaticolours.
He put his case of leathers in the boot — it was only a two-seater — and got into the low car on the passenger side. I hesitated outside until he leaned over and opened my door.
It only needed the keys close to function. He pressed the start button and the engine erupted.
“Come on, Livid,” he said, playing with the music.
“Don’t call me that,” I protested, sitting down.
The car was lit up with all different green lights around the edges of the trim. I used to feel awkward sitting in fancy cars like this, let alone driving one.
“You called me Ass-mas,” he said and chuckled. “It was actually quite good. You’re not half as serious as you make out to be.”
“Shut up and let me concentrate.”
In fairness, he did. He only spoke to guide me at the lights and any roundabouts where I started to sweat or look both ways in a panic. His voice was gentle and soothing, not patronising as I’d expected.
His phone beeped and the large screen of the car lit up with a text.
A number saved as Jules had texted him. For the second I saw it before he switched it off, the only words I could translate were ‘fucking kill you’ and ‘you’re dead.’
“Everything okay?” I asked, shuffling in my seat.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just an ex.”
